


what from my seclusion does this charlatan demand?

by wingless



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Umineko AU, and one nameless oc-ish character that's really just a plot device, that's a tag now because i said so, there's one surprise cameo i couldn't resist putting into here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-11 02:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingless/pseuds/wingless
Summary: Which is why, no matter how many times you repeat, no matter how every game ends, no matter the story goes, in the end, it always come down to this:In front of you, and deep below you, sits the academy. Your gameboard. Within it, the students. Your pieces. Around you, in this realm, and the realm below, a mass of spectators, humans or witch or demon. Your audience.And, in front of you, the chair opposite yours, your opponent. Your opponent, who you should have never had in the first place— and yet he is there. Each time, always there to greet you in that same chair. Your opponent, who never stops smiling. Your infuriating, baffling, annoying, incomprehensible opponent.





	what from my seclusion does this charlatan demand?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [friendship is the alias of boredom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297555) by [Elisye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye). 
  * Inspired by [implanta/.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385588) by [Elisye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye). 



> Honestly, I always thought Umineko and NDRV3 just naturally go very well together so it was inevitable, but I read both of these fics and it just blew my goddamn mind and I went 'holy shit, I need more of this, there's so much you can do with it as a concept', so. Here we go. Only a fraction of all the ideas I have, or what I think can be done with the concept, but I needed to get this out of my system.

It's often said that the greatest mistake one can make is to count the repetitions. Keeping track of time, maintaining a record, in a world with no time, no beginning or end, is a surefire path for any witch to destroy herself entirely.  You are reminded of this, often, by the furniture that comes to visit you as you work— a polite reminder to her most respectable Lady Shirogane that maintaining a numbered record, and therefore, a numbered list of every variation and repetition has been deemed inadvisable due to potential consequences on one's state of mind.

Now, with all due respect, you _do_ have a purpose, in keeping track of your own repetitions. More than counting, it is a matter of records, a matter of preserving every new variation that is born with every new game. Each is a a new take on the same story. The world of witches lets what could be a single season become a spinning wheel that never runs out of fiber, and you spin it to your hearts content. Mistakes or failures that are fateful, final, down in the human realm are like discarded first drafts, in this one. There are no wasted characters, wasted opportunities, wasted plotlines, no irreversible mishaps, no need for damage control. No risks. Unused pieces in one game find their spotlight in the next one. Scraps of ideas and potential become fully fledged plots. All that's broken is fixable. You finish a single game, and then spin the wheel and start all over again— an unending world of possibilities before you.

It is bliss. It is more heaven to you than the Heaven that exists up above. This is your very own compendium. Yours is the magic of storytelling, the magic you reached after the human you dedicated her life and soul to achieve it. The fruit of all these efforts is this gameboard: the latest and newest in a legacy of fifty-two, each one connected to the other, each part of a greater world of Fragments. You had worked and tired and bled and gave everything you could of yourself as an apprentice and as a witch to earn it and then create it from scratch. And this is the fruits of your labor; to do with entirely as you please until you tire out and declare that it is time to move on to the next.

 

* * *

 

It should have been— would have been, would have stayed that way beyond the first four rounds of the first game—if _he_ had not interfered.

Which is why, no matter how many times you repeat, no matter how every game ends, no matter the story goes, in the end, it always come down to this:

In front of you, and deep below you, sits the academy. Your gameboard. Within it, the students. Your pieces. Around you, in this realm, and the realm below, a mass of spectators, humans or witch or demon. Your audience.

And, in front of you, the chair opposite yours, your opponent. Your opponent, who you should have never had in the first place— and yet he is there. Each time, always there to greet you in that same chair. Your opponent, who never stops smiling. Your infuriating, baffling, annoying, incomprehensible opponent.

It's always the same sight— him sitting across you, whole body spread across the chair, reclining lax and comfortable as if it were a wide, comfy couch and not a single cold, stiff chair. As if the seat isn't a pair of shackles that he locked around his limbs by his own hands. And always, as if he isn't your willing prisoner, as if he isn't captive in a gameboard that belongs to you, finding things to taunt you about.

Idly, in a bored, unfocused tone: "Say, you wanna hear some truth, Shirogane-chan? Here, I have something for you: this storyline sucks!" "You know, for someone whose entire existence consists of playing make believe.... you're not very creative at all, huh?"

Dryly, sarcastically: "Wow, at this point you don't even need to introduce motives anymore! They'll kill themselves _and_ each other just to escape your shit story!" "Incredible, Shirogane-chan. I could make a bingo out of all these crappy clichés you're dropping! Sheesh, no wonder no on else except me wants to play with you."

Incredulously: "You know, this part never stops being hilarious. An alien virus, from meteorites in the sky! Can you come up with anything more stupid?" "Ah, and of course all of _our_ main characters just happened to be immune to it, because that's not convenient and contrived at all! Who cares about consistency and logic, right?"

You cannot understand where in the world he gets the nerve, the gall, to speak  this way— to speak over you, look down on you— on you! You, a Creator, a Witch among the highest rankings, and him, a barely fledgling witch whose first and only battleground is here, not even capable of leaving his own territory. You are the holder of a legacy, gameboards that have entertained and pleased worlds above and below before either of you were even born— and him? Just an anomaly, like every witch born of the board's pieces, every soul to come up here after its time in the human world ran its course.

Every round is like this: he is only ever silent as you watch the story scenes play out, outside of your battles, and only then, only out of necessity— not out of any respect for the gameboard, for your work.

And yet, still— you play. Every insult, taunt, every gesture of disrespect only motivates you further. Every spark of rage only adds to your drive, your resolve. You have, after all created him. He belongs to you. He should belong to you. He should be bound to your own boundaries, limited by your own limits, and you would die the cold, eternal undeath of a Witch before you allow yourself to be defeated by your own creation.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere down below during the fifth round of the first game, the human you down below is in a rare flurry of panic and confusion, and Team _Danganronpa_ is screaming in her ear piece, _what he is he doing, fix this, Shirogane,_ while on this plane, you are not so much as panicking as you are— irritated.  Very, very, very irritated.

Irritated, and wondering things you shouldn't be wondering. Asking questions you shouldn't be asking. Doubting things you shouldn't be doubting. All these things, your patron Witch doesn't say and doesn't express as she enters the smoking room and sits some distance behind you, simply _watching._ By the end of the fifth round where both of you have finally regained some semblance of control, the story is back on track, and the audience is placated, her expression, when you look back at her, is amused. Eyes twinkling knowingly.

 _Keep an eye on that one_ , is all she says, and you can only assume she refers to Saihara. _We should have a newcomer on our hands soon— this one should be at least a little bit more interesting than the last dozen or so._

Saihara, here? You wonder about that. Previous protagonists have rarely ended up as witches. Very few have met the requirements, and those who did were rarely the type that could fit in the world of Purgatorio. And if not here, then the hardheaded sticklers for rules and violent righteousness up in Heaven and its Grand Court have proven a poor fit for their rebellious hearts. That is where you assume a detective would go, but for someone as tenderhearted and gentle as your Saihara it would be even worse.

Of course, that is assuming that a Saihara that makes it to this world would even be anything like his human self— but that depends on things that you, in the end, cannot entirely control. The process to which a soul ascends to this plane is not determined by elements that can be dictated, only influenced.

But that's all just a brief afterthought, and you have other things to focus on. In the end, the game is all that really matters, and you proceed, through what you know will still be the final round, through the survivor's navigations of what remains, through the utter _mess_ that once again spirals out of your control that you just barely manage to regain. Although at least this time it's more of a technical malfunction— annoying, but palatable. All to the last trial— lead by Saihara himself, look at him, he's grown so proactive, making _demands;_ it's hard not to be proud of him even if it's mostly to your detriment in this situation— a trial that, while unexpected, is still salvageable.

It's rather miffing to be exposed so easily, but the revelation of a ringleader can make for an excellent finale and a battle that will be satisfying both for your audience and yourself regardless of the outcome. And besides, both of you, here and below have grown tired of Shirogane Tsumugi— it's good to finally slip back into Junko again, even if it's by proxy and you're not even dressed as her personally. You've learned your lesson; for the next game, you'll have to keep in mind how you act so as to drag out the mystery of the Mastermind a little bit longer for it to have the proper impact. And perhaps next time you can make proper use of the twin sister element for the mastermind and for Kaede, as you wanted. None of this is as you planned, but it's under control. Everything is finally under control again. Every option, every possible outcome, every ending, limited only to what you will allow and only to what you can dictate.

You keep an eye on Saihara, as has been suggested, more curious than cautious, but you see no magic, not even potential for magic, no manipulation of reality. The opposite, in fact, only a ruthless drive to peel it away and shatter the illusion it creates and expose it all, as only befits a detective. Not even considering an alternative until you hear a voice you should not be hearing speaking from behind you, and—

"Yay, I get to see them bring you down personally! Good, I'm glad I managed to make it right in time."

And the world stops, suspends, together with you, as if you pressed _pause_ on the whole gameboard— you might as well have. A cheerful, bright voice, followed by light, skipping steps. "Hey, hey, Shirogane-chan, save a seat for me! I wanna watch, too!" —And you turn around to see Ouma Kokichi, perfectly intact and exactly as you remember him in life.

 

* * *

 

You are more than just a little bit irritated, now.

But it's fine. It's all good. Absolutely none of it matters, because—

"If you want to watch all your efforts against me come down to nothing, Ouma-kun, then be my guest." Your own voice sounds hollow to you; you don't have the energy to spare to really be angry at him, or to act for him as you do for the survivors down below. You are a Creator, and therefore, an author, in this world, more than a cosplayer; it's a state that allows you the privacy and silence you need to work and create, but leaves you at a much rawer state than your more performative piece.

"Hmmm." He takes a seat in a chair that you don't remember materializing, and sits back, crossing his legs. "You sure are in a rush to declare victory. Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?"

"Victory? Against who, you?" You look back at him and smile, without a trace of humor. "You really think there was ever any battle between us in the first place?"

Yes— that he could even make it up here is irritating, but it doesn't matter, because there's nothing he can do now, and there was nothing he could do then. He was never anything but your piece; for him to try battle you is no more than an ignorant human throwing stones at the moon's reflection in the water.

—And yet.

"Neeheehee..." He laughs, nasty and nasally, and leans in towards you. "Is that what you think? Oh, but I scared you for a good while there, didn't I? When I burst in, all, 'I'm the mastermind!', and ruined eeeeeeeverything for you and the game just shut down right then and there? When you had to bullshit your way into a new backstory and rehash everything you set up to get the pieces moving again? Hey, hey, did you like my final puzzle? I worked pretty hard on that, you know— there we so many preparations to make ! But more than worth it to make a mystery the Game Master herself didn't know the answer to."

You stiffen in your chair, but remind him, and yourself— "And how well did that work out for you."

Undeterred, he continues on: "True, I should have considered that not even the smallest little flaw in my plan would escape Saihara-chan's all-seeing detective insight. And if anyone could have persuade Momota-chan to open the cat box, it would have been him. Mm, the moment he figured it out, that was the only possible outcome." For the briefest moment, there is a twitch in his saccharine smile, something a little more rueful, more genuine, but it doesn't last. "But it worked, didn't it? The cat box I created right under your little nose... and look, here I am!"

He stands up, punctuating the words with a little spin. Before you know it, he's inching closer and closer until he's close enough to whsiper— "Hey... how did it feel, Shirogane-chan? Knowing your own piece messed up everything up, huh? Hey, hey hey _hey_ , how's it feel?"

You know he can see your hands clenching into fists, balling up your skirt, can hear your tense, sharp inhale and yet, still, still, absolutely none it matters, and it's nothing but an attempt to get under your skin to amuse himself and cover up his losses.

"How does it feel to know you've failed, and all of it will amount to nothing?" You spit out, and allow yourself to scowl right back at him. "You're wasting your time being a sore loser. You have no pieces to play with, including your own, no place in the gameboard, and there's nothing you can do anymore. I'm bringing this game to its conclusion, so sit back and watch."

Ouma seems to consider this, for a moment or two, and then he takes a seat, leans back, crosses his arms and gives you a very simple answer.

"Nope. This game isn't over yet, Shirogane-chan. The outcome isn't for you to decide."

Turning his head towards something neither of your eyes can see, he says, "Don't you agree, everyone?"

In an instant—

A thousand wordless voices ring across, from somewhere at once far away yet so near, each one low and quiet on its own yet all of them, together, a countless crowd, all of them bleeding into each other. A mass of spectators; witches of every type, wandering human spirits, furniture, demons and residents of Heaven alike.

The veil is lifted, and the curtain is drawn, exposing you to millions of thousands of pairs of eyes, all of them watching, all of them as if they were one single mass. All watching with bated breath, their voices a silent mass of noise. Ouma looks over at them, satisfied.

"It's true that the human Ouma Kokichi can no longer act in the gameboard," he says, and finally sits back down— on a chair opposite yours. "But does that mean the same for me? After all, everything that led up to this point is my doing, all the events that made this game go off-script is my doing. Everyone's actions were a result of my actions, and predicted by me... I wonder, can they even be called your pieces? Were they ever really yours?"

You come up with a hundred of different responses to all that, but more important to you now is an entirely different question:

"What do you want from _them_?"

"You've called upon your audience down in the gameboard, so I thought it would be fitting to call upon our audience too."

What's the point? You don't create this game for them. You don't write for them. You play alone, for no one's entertainment and interest but your own. The audience has always been there, but it's just an afterthought, a tradition. Beings across Fragments across universes look towards the gameboards for entertainment; that is the natural order of things. That this one has proven particularly popular after the millennia of different games is by incident, not by design.

It's not the way it is down there, where the audience is truly part of the game, decides how their representative acts and proceed, is able to influence by its choices and opinions. There's no point.

There's no point, which means either Ouma is just that spectacularly foolish, or he has something else in mind, but his expression betrays nothing of his intent.

 

* * *

 

"Lady Shirogane." The butler, as he has chosen to identify himself as, will greet you as he manifests, tray with tea in hand. "Lord Ouma." He will set the tea, the _clink_ and little noises of silverware loud and conspicuous in the tense silence you spend your breaks in. Your opponent will watch him, curiously, chin resting in his palm, eyeing him up and down expressionlessly, face blank.

Then Ouma will begin to talk, like so:

"Sooooooo, whatsyourname, Big Dipper boy. Tell me something." 

He will prompt him, an in reply, receive something like:

"For a great Witch such as yourself, My Lord, to deign to speak to this mere furniture is flattering beyond belief." An automatic answer, said without thinking, in his distinctive soft, raspy voice, but his tone is emotionless, clipped, flat. "I can only hope my answers ca—"

"About that, actually," Ouma will interrupt him, sometimes smirking and sly, and sometimes composed and distant and expression perfectly neutral, even— unusually serious, it seems to you. This time, it's the latter, his expression is unreadable, his tone flat: "I'm curious, you know? Wondering why you always say stuff like that. Why you call yourself furniture."

And in answer, always, the same: "I call myself furniture because I am furniture."

It's a conversation you don't know if to tune out of or listen to rapidly. You know full well that down there, your audience would be fascinated, would kill for this sort of impossible cross-season interaction. Maybe even the human you would be among them. But the two witches before you now aren't the people they were in the human world. The butler hides it well, but he has been warped and broken (even further than he already has in life) by the abyss of time in this world, and by now has become little more than an automaton. And you can only wait to see what will become of Ouma once this is all over; he surely won't resemble himself in at least a thousand years.

And even then— you find yourself feeling a lot less fond of either of them here, in person. In the first place, the whole point is that they're not real. You don't have a taste for the living, not there and not here. Reality is a flexible and unstable concept in this world, but they're real enough to lose all appeal they hold to you as mere characters.

"Buuuuullshiiiiiit. You've been around longer than either me or even her," a wave in your direction, barely acknowledging. "And I _know_ you're a witch. I know what sort of things what you've achieved. Oh, yes, that means that you're my senpai, doesn't it? My very own senpai in complex manipulations, elaborate planning, and shit-stirring! You see? Hearing my senpai speak so lowly of himself is pretty depressing, you know?"

He sniffs exaggeratedly, wiping fake tears from his eyes, pouting. "Can you imagine what a blow it is to my self confidence? I mean, if you're just furniture, than what am I, huh?"

And the butler will ignore it all, smile modestly, and answer him seriously:

"The Witch of Lies, Ouma Kokichi, who was able to defeat a Witch of the Killing Games on her own gameboard as a human piece." He is only repeating what everyone knows and what everyone says, the official verdict, but you still barely hold back a flinch. It doesn't get any less infuriating to hear it said that way. It's why you're still playing in the first place— you're not going to stop playing until you don't ever have to hear these words ever again. "I wouldn't dare compare a failure, something as shabby and lowly and worthless as myself, to your accomplishments, my Lord."

Ouma rolls his eyes. "Sheesh, I don't know if I'm taking to a wall or a ping-pong table. You don't even hear anything I say."

"I'm very sorry to disappoint, my Lord. However should I repent for dissatisfying you so?"

"Yeah, I bet you are," Ouma mutters, and then exclaims melodramatically: "There's nothing to be done! I feel so much sadder and sorrier just looking at you!"

"Ah, how terrible. Perhaps I should leave; I wouldn't want my terrible shabby presence to inconvenience y—"

"Oh yeah! You have no idea!" Ouma continues, ignoring any response as if he didn't even hear it. "You are so lamentable, so miserable, so beautifully tragic, your tale of woe and sadness goes straight to my heart! My cold, dark, empty void of a heart. It might just regain my humanity and learn to feel again, so touched I was by your plight!"

The butler has become accustomed to these things by now, you know. He recognizes Ouma's usual routine of performances when he sees one, and smiles patiently, saying nothing, waiting for Ouma to run out of steam. And he does, dropping the act in a flash and his voice dropping down to flat apathy.

"That was all lies, of course, but it _is_ sad."

"Oh, of course," he chirps, "I am well aware."

"I don't mean that in the way you mean it. I mean," Ouma sighs, and leans back, then tilts his head up sideways. "Come on now... you've been around longer than either me or her have been alive, before we were even born— in this world, or any other. You're old as balls, which in here, means you're probably stronger than both of us combined. And you choose to be stuck here as a servant pouring tea and playing Jeeves to Shirogane-chan and all her people— to them, who the reason you're so miserable in the first place? It takes some serious masochism to willingly enslave yourself to your own tormentors, who barely register you as a person."

"That's not a problem. I don't register to them as anything beyond what I already am."

"What was I saying about talking to a ping pong table? Must be convenient for them, that the character who they created to see himself as subhuman is here to work for them and enable that subhuman treatment of him all the while. Sure, it's not really any of my business, but it's still just too sad!"

"Your concern is flattering, my Lord." It's said politely, but you think you might sense a note of sarcasm is there; which would well be the most emotion you've heard from him from the first day you even saw him, from the day you ascended and became a Witch. But honestly, after remaining utterly static for the past thousand years he's become boring and repetitive, and with Ouma in the same room your patience is wearing all the more thin, and you make certain by the look you send their way that it registers.

Eventually, it will end, some way or another; for example— "Ooooh, scary, scary, Shirogane-chan is glaring." Then, louder, as Ouma raises his hands and claps in an over exaggerated manner, almost singing out: "Alright, Komaeda-chan, I think we're done here. Thank you, and that will be all!"

A name he doesn't use to refer to himself here, but still clearly registers for him. The wraith of a person that was once Komaeda Nagito freezes in place, expression turning stiff and cold, motionless as if suspended in time— and the moment lasts for not a second before he's smiling again, goes back to playing the butler as if nothing happened at all. With a light bow, he leaves the room.

It's not always the butler. Sometimes other remains and pieces of past characters appear your way. Some have become Witches. Some are still bound to their territories, stuck wandering what their own gameboard used to be once it was over. Some are Voyagers, disappearing into the void only to return here after eons, unrecognizable and different after what they have experienced and seen. Many simply disappear, losing themselves and the remains of their souls scattered across fragments and void like dandelions blown by the wind.

Most, at one point or another, become the furniture of the assembly of Witches who preside of the board, consisting of all your predecessors who still remain. Being their furniture, they are naturally also yours, by extension, even if you are still for all intents and purposes only an apprentice despite not lacking any power or experience.

And so long as they serve you, they naturally cross ways with Ouma, and each time, none manage to avoid his pestering and needling and all his ways of messing with them.

You asked him this the first time, and at some point you have to ask him again: "What's the point of messing with them, Ouma-kun? What are you looking to gain?"

"Who said I'm looking to gain anything? Maybe I'm just killing time between games or trying to look for something to do. Maybe I need some conversation partners that aren't you, Shirogane-chan. Maybe I'm trying to gather intel that might be used to overthrow you! Oh wait, I guess that _is_ gain. But not really, because what are the chances they'll actually give up anything that will compromise the great and powerful Assembly?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I'm just doing it to satisfy my curiosity. Pick whatever option you like."

Your lips hover over your teacup, contemplative. "I certainly hope I'm not boring you, Ouma-kun."

"If you were boring me, we wouldn't still be here, would we?"

 

* * *

 

The audience he invited, as it turns out, is also doubtful, if the voice of their representative is anything to go by. It's hard to tell from a voice that has no tone, no feeling, that only represents a single collective will as best in could through an audience that's fairly diverse in its opinions and desires.

_W HAT DO YOU SEEK TO GAIN, HUMAN PIECE?_

"Hm? Who said I'm 'seeking to gain' anything?"

_D O YOU HOPE FOR OUR ASSISTANCE IN DEFEATING YOUR ENEMY?_

He gasps, loud and sarcastic: "No way! That's _cheating_! You think I'd play dirty and break the rules like that? How could you!" He lets out a loud fake wailing noise. "You guys are so _mean!"_

Then he drops the act within a second, and switches to another one, wide-eyed and innocent: "Besides! Both of you just said it, didn't you? Shirogane-chan doesn't acknowledge me as her enemy, or even as a witch, so I can't call her mine. A one sided battle is hardly a battle! And you guys also said that I'm just a piece, and there's no way a mere piece can challenge a witch on equal grounds, riiiiiiiight?"

The spectators ignore this: _T HEN EXPLAIN WHAT YOU WANT OF US._

A a smile spreads across his lips, slowly, slowly, and he says in a low voice: "Come now... what's your rush? Don't you want to enjoy the conclusion to your beloved game the best you could? What's the fun if I explain everything right away?"

_Y OU WASTE TIME ATTEMPTING TO FOOL US. WE HAVE SEEN YOUR TRUTH. YOU DO NOT SEEK TO ENTERTAIN, AND YOU HAVE NO TASTE FOR IT._

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Ouma shakes his head, mockingly disapproving.  "See the truth behind _me?_ That's a pretty bold thing of you to go around claiming. It's just very important to me that there's some clear communication between us, you see! Besides, you misunderstand. I don't share your taste for _murder_ , but I know how important it is to keep things entertaining. So..." He gestures to the gameboard. "Why don't you all just sit back and watch?"

 

* * *

 

In the second game, the first one after you restart, he keeps interrupting you, getting in your way in every move  on the board. Using his newfound power as a Witch, all your pieces fall beneath his hands, while his piece self manipulates each one in a complex web of lies and intrigue, all of them dancing to his tune.

In the eight game, you decide to let Akamatsu and Amami both live this time, in spite of the potential risks, and have to sacrifice Saihara in exchange. You watch with a vague dissatisfaction as he commits the murder his past self had dreamed of and planned to once he's in the game, but the twist of the detective becoming a culprit falls a little flat in comparison to what his past self had planned. You suppose he was looking for the horror thriller twist of the cool and trusted detective using his skills for murder, to become a terrifying villain; instead it all comes off as rather pitiful and sad. His death hangs over Akamatsu's head through the game, drives her further and further, and lets her play perfectly, carefully, into your hands, allowing you to finally regain control over her and Amami's pieces both.

The ninth game, they survive a final desperate attempt at escaping, only to be greeted with the dark truth of the outside. The tenth, they turn against each other in a bloody, violent way; the eleventh, they survive until the end, yet fail where Saihara succeeded, and only Amami remains, to be sacrificed as another survivor for the next game that never comes.

You play with them and all their possibilities until you get bored, and then let them both die all over again, to see what else can be done with Saihara as the main character again.

In the twenty-first game, Ouma seems to have gotten either bored or tired, and declares that he's going to be passive this time, and let you do whatever you want. He watches, yawning, as the first trial plays out almost exactly as the first time, but the entirety of the rest of the game finally goes back on track to your original script. He brings some popcorn and munches while watching and provides a lot of annoying but colorful commentary, but true to his word does not interfere even as he watches the end roll and declares it boring, and that his version was much better.

You are finally, _finally_ able to play out the script you were planning, and it goes perfectly and smoothly and precisely. Not a single divergence. It's a strangely anticlimactic feeling. Almost makes you wonder if it was worth any of this, for a brief, terrible moment.

The thirty-fourth game, you decide you're bored with all three of them— Akamatsu, Saihara, and Amami— and want someone else as a protagonist, so when the three of them all die, Keebo takes the central stage. After that, you alternate between different main characters, letting each and every one take a chance at being the protagonist, some more successfully than others, some more interesting and some less.

At some point, your only remaining untested options are yourself and Ouma, and, realizing what's on your mind as you pour over the groundwork, has a long, good laugh at your expense until you think _oh, why not_ and make yourself the protagonist. It's antithesis to everything you stand for and makes for a very odd Fragment and a very odd game, but finishing it feels rather like crossing something off your bucket list. Like it was something you needed to try at some point or another.

And because at this point there's no reason not to, you suggest to Ouma and ask if he wants to try, too. He's the last one remaining. He barely manages to get an answer of _sure, Shirogane-chan, might be fun_ in between the laughter, but it doesn't seem to be entirely at your expense at this point. That game ends with his victory, but it did not feel like a loss. It does not feel like a competition so much as collaboration, and that was the strangest feeling in the world.

In the fifty-seventh game, you barely make it past the first trial, and half the cast is already dead by the third round. This too is acceptable. At the very least, it's different, and interesting, and new, if perhaps unconventional, and you spend several games trying to see how many can potentially die and how quickly it can all end within the shortest amount of time. It's all the more worth it for the expression of disgust on Ouma's face, and all the ways he tries to stop you and circumvent your plans when you've become entirely unrestrained. You play cat and mouse across several games, and it makes for several interesting stories. The result is a stack of rather pyrrhic, bloody victories for him, and a smaller collection for you.

In the ninety-second game, everything, everything, _everything_ is becoming boring, and you've become tired of him. His words, his jeering, his voice, his manipulations, his constant, annoying interference, and decide it's time to get rid of him for real.

 

* * *

 

It leaves you feeling hollow, more than anything.

Not even anger, not even pain. The feeling of it all slipping away from you, from your hands, like water between your fingers. The loss of all control. The world is spinning around you, your head feeling light, your blood running cold and all warmth leaving you, sound turning mute and your inhuman heart beating, pounding insanely in your chest, and, deep at the core of you, a simple, absolute emptiness.

And above all, a simple, lifeless question keeps ringing in your head, and it's _how?_

"That's my Saihara-chan! I knew he'd do it!" Ouma claps cheerily, like he's just won a bet in a horse race. "Nothing like a good old fashioned 'rocks fall and everyone dies' ending, huh?"

And your audience—

The unified voice of the spectators shatters and stirs crackles like fireworks, unable to preserve a single unified purpose, until it becomes a cacophony, and they surround the gameboard, pounding with inhuman hands on the barrier between actors and spectators, encircling your own rooms until they block out even the eternal nothingness of the Sea of Fragments where your dimension resides.

And amidst all that, completely unbothered by the noise, lips stretched from ear to ear in pure malice, sits Ouma, and watches.

Somehow it all feels to you as if it were happening somewhere from very, very far away, to someone else. Your eyes can barely leave the gameboard, can barely see around or above or beyond it, or comprehend any events outside of it. The obnoxious noise of is strangely muted, as if you were separated from it by a layer of glass walls, and the words you hear only barely registering somewhere at the back of your mind, all of it filtered out by the pounding of your heart all the way up to your head and all you hear down in the human world.

("I couldn't miss out on the chance to see it for myself, you know? I had to witness your reactions to the single most disappointing and anticlimactic ending this game could have!")

You lost. You really lost. How? How did this happen? How did you lose, and to him? To _him._ How? How how how how how how how _how?_ Where was your mistake? What did you overlook? What did you not consider? How did you not forsee this at all? How could he have taken control? Why won't your pieces move according to your will and your control? How did he capture them for himself? How did he even obtain the needed power to stand there as an opponent in the first place?

You watch it as if in slow motion. Kiibo destroying the academy and reducing it to ashes and ruins; your remaining pieces closing their eyes and accepting their chosen fate. Yourself, experiencing what you're sure is disappointingly anticlimactic despair, yet trying to find some relish that even if she was only ever an imitator of better works and creations, then she must at least be proud of what she _has_ done.

Is that her speaking, or you? Briefly breaking through the barrier between your worlds and bleeding into theirs— your own heart bleeding into hers? You always despised your title as the Witch of Replication, but is this who you are? A witch that has only ever known to copy and imitate your stronger superiors?

Stupid, stupid thoughts. You don't think about things like these. You are a witch of the Killing Games, a Creator, apprentice to the Assembly. She is a piece, a human, with nothing to take pride in, grasping at straws, a you that you used to be.

( _T HE SPECTATORS' OFFICIAL DECREE IS A DEMAND FOR ANOTHER GAME._ "You guys sure you want that? Really, really, reaaaaallly sure? What do you think will happen to your favorite little show with me here, hmmmm?" _)_

And then they're gone. They're gone, and you're buried together with the rubble of the Academy, and in this Fragment, there is no more _Danganronpa_.

("Saihara-chan really said it best, so I'll declare it right here officially: If either hope or despair win, the game continues on, unending. So there's only one way to end it, right? For neither of them to win. By rejecting the very game itself So here's your ending, everyone. The only ending you're ever going to get so long as I'm here.")

Somewhere from far away, the audience roars again, screams and shrieks, and pounds on unseen windows, and cries for a reprise, another game, for reparation, a near deafening cacophony you can't hear neither Ouma or your own thoughts over. You have half a mind to tell them to shut up just because it's annoying, when—

"That's quite enough."

—Your patron's voice rings, loud and clear and grand through the entire room, and cuts through it all. It's calm and level, not a trace of anger, but you tense up and freeze in place all the same. All sound ceases right then and there, an eerie perfect silence falling across. Even Ouma, who still looks mostly unperturbed, quiets down.

She materializes near the entrance, floor-length skirts shuffling as she smoothly walks toward the center. The eyes of the spectators, millions of tiny pairs glowing in the darkness, follow her, as do you and Ouma. Your patron walks up to the center, eyes Ouma up and down, and then, seemingly satisfied with what she's seen, turns away towards the unveiled audience and folds her arms.

"This isn't exactly common practice, you know. I wanted to let dear Tsumugi do her own thing; this game is after all hers to act with as she wishes, but it's clear this _mess_ can't be fixed without some higher rank interference. I can't imagine how much trouble you're giving the poor dear. Now, tell me, children, what in the world is the fuss all about?"

You expect the voices to all rise up again in protest, in complaint; they don't, and she looks over to the gameboard once before continuing. "A single loss in the first game. Really! That's all? One would think the entire gameboard has been eradicated from your reactions! Perhaps one could worry if this were to indicate that a defeat is incoming, but," and then she turns to you. "You have no intent of losing, do you, Tsumugi, dear?"

"...No, my Lady."

"So there you have it! Now do calm down, all of you. It seems we must set some order. Really, Tsumugi, next time, you can talk to me when something like this happens. It's natural for a young apprentice Witch to run into some trouble. That's what the Assembly is here for!"

You can't tell if she's being genuine or sarcastic, but you bite your lip and give a courteous answer: "I understand, my Lady."

"Sooooo,"  Ouma pipes up, "Is this lady here what they'd call Enoshima Junko the 52nd?"

Your instinct is to panic at his candor— talking like this to a Witch of that level is sure to get him in trouble— and then wonder what you're panicking for. if she strikes against him for his disrespect, you can only benefit. but then, the punishments a witch can inflict in this world are something you're not sure you'd wish on anyone, even on him. But instead she barely looks at him, only sighs and mutters to herself.

"What a troublesome piece, this one. Still, we can't have this be done improperly, can we?" She waves a hand and raises her voice: "You there, boy. Come here."

"Oh? This should be good." Ouma slinks over to where she stands, but stops in his tracks right when she raises a palm towards him. Even he seems to have some understanding of who and what's in front of him, it seems.

"Stand straight. Look a little more civilized, boy." Ouma seems a little bemused to be instructed as if he's in some kind of pageant or being presented for a show, but complies with rolling eyes. "Yes ma’am."

You frown a little, as you watch.  You think you might have an idea about where this is going, but can only hope somewhat desperately that it's not.

She circles him for a while, looking him over, before moving to stand by his side, a hand on his shoulder, then gestures towards you: "Tsumugi, I'll need you to act as a witness, for the sake of formalities."

"Wha— _what_?" You know exactly what she's talking about, but ask anyway: "Excuse me. What do you mean?"

"The official elevation and acknowledgement of a witch requires at least one other witch to stand witness, and you are the only one here aside of me. It'll be a more modest ceremony then is common practice here, but there's no helping that, considering the circumstances."

"You're going to— _him_ —?" Somewhat desperately, you manage to squeak out: "But— but, my Lady! He's just a piece! Just a human!"

 "So were you, and so was perhaps every single one of us, at some point, before we each discovered our own magic.  Hush, now. Things change and fate twists and turns in often unexpected ways, and all we are to do is adapt ourselves." Her answer is level, calm. She is more patient than usual today, or perhaps she always is and you've judged her character inaccurately. Either way, she doesn't seem to make much of what other witches would consider your show of disrespect.

You don't answer, even though you absolutely should be answering, or at least saying something, but seemingly taking pity on you, she adds:

"I'm sure you understand, my dear. We can't have you going into battle against a piece, now, can't we? It seems this one has long surpassed this role. Besides, no one comes here without some measure of potential in magic; it's always only a matter of time of exposing it. And what he has done down in your gameboard was pure magic, no?"

She isn't looking at him, and so doesn't see it, but you catch it: Ouma's head turns her way, and he raises a single eyebrow. You wonder if he's thinking of Yumeno and _her_ magic, perhaps, or questioning how was any of what he did magic, and what does that say about what magic is.

"..." You take a deep breath. "... Yes. I understand, my Lady."

"Good! Now come here so we might get this over with."

Of course. Because as the only other witch here, there's no other option, and you can't say no, but it does chafe to be involved in the ceremony at all. So you walk up to the pair, taking your place by Ouma's other side, and try to keep your expression still and fight the urge to grit your teeth and scowl at him. You expect him to be smirking at you, looking smug, but when you catch a glance of his expression, its perfect stillness mirrors yours.

"Hear me, denizens of Purgatorio." Her voice, low and powerful, rings across the room, and beyond, in the silence. "I shall declare it here and now. On my authority as a Creator Witch and the current territory lord, I acknowledge and proclaim this one as the Witch of Lies, Ouma Kokichi. Now, I declare the official commencement of the 53rd Killing Game, and this one as the opponent to my protégé, Witch of Replication, Shirogane Tsumugi."

Then, in a whisper you barely perceive, she adds, "If you wish to pick out a new name for yourself, as many Witches do, for your new identity, you may do so later, but now is the better time for it."

Ouma tilts his head with a low, thoughtful hum, but it's hard to say if he considers it seriously or not before replying. " Only if I come up with something really good. You know, I think I've had enough name changes and identity confusions for a lifetime."

 

* * *

 

You go on the aggressive, truly go on the aggressive, for the first time in you don't know how long since you started playing. You hunt him in the gameboard in every nook and cranny. You attack him with red truth after red truth. You place traps in every space you find where he might step, in this world, or the board, and each time, even when he loses all his pieces, even when his own piece is eliminated early, each time, somehow, he evades you. He loses his piece, dies in the human world, and yet somehow manages to still control and take possession over half of yours.

Sometimes, when you win, you watch your piece in the game look upon hollowly at her success, unable to find satisfaction in all her losses and barebones last-minute victories, and are scarcely happier than her.

It's much more stimulating for him than it is for you. He takes gladly to this new gameplay method, relishes in it, in all the many creative ways to avoid and evade you, all the new tactics he must come up with to succeed.

And you?  You just want to play. You just want him _gone_.

 

* * *

 

"Well, Shirogane-chan? What do you say? You know, you don't really _have_ to play, you know?"

Before you can respond, the answer comes from near him: "She does. She knows full well what faces her should she lose."

"Oh, what's this? Are you guys threatening her with terrible terrible punishment if she loses? Keeping her hostage, or something, to make sure she secures you a victory?" Ouma shakes his head. "Sheesh, don't you guys know that this is no way to make a productive creative environment?"

"Just what sort of mental image do you have of Witches? We need do no such thing. It's not a matter that one is forced into in the first place. She knew from the start that if she loses her game, she loses her status as an apprentice and a member of The Assembly, and thus, her power as well as the gameboard, and becomes a Witch with no territory, no place, and no status. She doesn't want to be the first in a steady streak of fifty two perfect successes and victories."

You want to be irritated for having yourself be explained to him, spoken as if you aren't there, but you really, truly, _not_ in the mood to explain any of it yourself, so she might as well.

"And of course, if you speak of creativity, then there are no limits there, either. _How_ she plays and what she does with the gameboard is entirely up to her. So long as victory is achieved at some point, she can go about it however she likes, and as long as she likes."

 

* * *

 

Yes, so long as you achieve a victory, it's fine.

So when you don't win, but don't lose, either— eventually, they all slowly dwindle away.

Your patron, at some point, comes in during a game, right in the middle, to announce her departure. She pats you on the shoulder and says, _Well then, Tsumugi, darling, do have fun_ , as if she were dropping off a child at school and driving off to work. _There's a whole Sea awaiting out there, and I hope we should meet someday again somewhere amongst the stars._ They take their furniture with them, of course, because why would they leave them to you, their only failure? And so do your few, rare, occasional conversation partners disappear with them.

It doesn't happen all at once; they leave one by one, each one of them take some of their favorite furniture and companions with them. It takes a good several games, frow only a few absentees, to only half, to barely a fraction, to the rooms where the Assembly used to be to empty out entirely.

And then it's just you and him, surrounded by eternal silence.

You don't remember the game number anymore. You've stopped keeping records the day you stopped caring about your world and your story and anything but getting Ouma out. That was, you remember, the ninety-second. You skipped out counting the one hundredth by the time it arrived, whenever that was, and by now it could easily be game number 150, 200, 300, or maybe really only a little over 100 still.

You don't know when you begin to just feel _tired_. You only know that Ouma is still exactly the same as he always was. That he never runs out of energy, never runs out of things to say and ways to mess with you. You only know that the first and only time he shows any sort of exhaustion at all, you recognize it, when another game finishes, and all he does is sigh and shove the pieces off the board.

"Aaaaaaaaand I win again, Shirogane-chan." He speaks in a bored, half-hearted tone, like even those words alone is too much effort for him. He could almost pass off as lazy, instead of exhausted. But then he looks back at you, and his tone turns to steel, expression dead serious in a way you haven't seen since this all began. "I win again, because I won a long, long time ago. I won the moment I became a witch. You're just pushing it at this point, Shirogane. 'Cause you're a sore loser, 'cause you just can't let go, 'cause you can't get enough of this playground you made for yourself and that's all that gives your life any purpose. But even you know it's useless, don'tcha, oh great Creator Witch? It's over. You lost from the first time the audience made their decision in the first game."

 _Because you're a sore loser,_ he says. _Because you can't let go,_ he says, as if you were the one who started any of this, as if any of this was even your choice in the first place, as if, as if, as if as if as if _as if_ —

"... I was never trying to fight you." You start, in a low voice, in a whisper, and then, your voice rises up in a sharp crescendo and you _snap_ : "I never _wanted_ to fight you!" Rising in your seat, gesture at him wildly, all your self control gone— "You wouldn't have to be doing any of this if you would just play along with me in the first place! _You_ wouldn't be here— _stuck_ here!— as a witch, either! I only—"

—It's possibly the most pathetic thing you've ever said, but no less true for it. You can't believe the words even as they leave your lips—

"—I only want you to just leave me alone! Let me finish my game! Let me finish my story!"

You expect him to laugh at you, mock you, in that characteristic way of his. Instead, he answers, cold and flat as the floor beneath you:

"No can do, Shirogane-chan. My goal is to end this game. I'm not letting go until either I win, or you destroy me and get rid of me for real."

"What do you _think_ I've been trying to do?"  You answer, just barely, through clenched teeth.

"Trying to get rid of me without actually killing me here. How come, by the way? It's actually funny how softhearted you're being about it. It's a shame! If you had tried to destroy me for real, we could have had a good fight. And you had so many chances, too! So, seriously. Why am I still here?"

"Don't tempt me."

"You're stalling, Shirogane-chan. If you really wanted to, you would have done it by now. Oh, oh! Could it be? Could it be?" He leans down, resting his chin in his palms, and bats his eyelashes. “Have you've _fallen_ for me? Of course you would, after being stuck in the same room with me for so long! And now, you can't let me go! You wanna trap me here with you forever, like that one whatshername!"

"Stop." You take a deep, shaky breath, and clench your fists until your nails dig into your palms. "Just stop. If you really are more than just my piece... if you really have your own will, and really think you can defy the roles and the script that I created for you... then, Ouma-kun, just for once. Be honest with me."

Once again, you expect mockery, more push back, more deflection and for him to laugh at you for asking him of all people to be honest. _Like talking to a ping pong table_ , he said once, and now you finally understand how to explain how _you_ feel talking to him.

It doesn't come. Instead— instead he remains silent. His expression fades into something distant, vague and absent— he looks straight at you, perfectly emotionless, and simply watches you as you sit back down and sigh.

An eternity seems to pass in this silence. A silence you'd normally fill, in intervals like these, with ordering tea, some snacks, something to eat, not for the sake of nutrition so much as for the simple pleasure of it, and though everyone who has provided it for you is gone, you can simply manifest it yourself with magic. But the atmosphere right now doesn't quite feel right for something so frivolous, so you let the silence hang on and on and on, and you drift off into some uncertain contemplation, almost begin to doze off before―

"Mm, yeah, you're seriously not my type, anyway." You just barely hold back from jumping in surprise when his voice breaks the silence. "No offense, but I actually have standards. But it's also a shame, because falling for someone who actually breathes would have made a good basis for one of those stories where the bad guy turns good after discovering loooooove."

(Funny choice of words. Someone who actually breathes. You're not sure if it applies to anyone here.)

It's more of his deflection, this time— maybe? It's harder to say; he speaks rather halfheartedly, like a very bored actor reading off a script, like he doesn't have the energy to inject his usual demeanor into it.

"Still," He begins, fiddling with the now temporarily discarded board. "It wouldn't surprise me. I mean, you're all alone now, Shirogane-chan. Everyone's gone. You poor thing! Abandoned by your masters, left to fend for yourself until you fix your screw up so you can go back and restore your honor as a Witch... anyone would cling to the one and only person around in such a situation!"

"I may be alone, but so are you."

"Oh, that's different." Ouma answers, from somewhere at a distance. His hands take one of the pieces and begin to fiddle with it and play with it instead.

"Different because you never had anyone to lose in the first place?"

His expression doesn't change. but his hands stop where they were. He stares at the piece, and blinks once, but otherwise remains frozen, as if suspended in time.

You let the words hang in the air, let them simmer in his head, without needing to say anything else on the topic.

"I could say the same to you." You say softly. "You should have killed me. If you really aren't my piece anymore, than the backstory and the principles I gave you should mean nothing."

"What, the no-kill policy and all that stuff? That's not why. It's not because of them that I don't kill." He conspicuously avoids the name DiCE. "That's... just me."

Of course it's not him. Nothing about him is _him_. Everything about him from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers is made and created by you from scratch. Much less some sort of principle or ideal he holds on to— a ridiculous thing to hold on to in here, in a world with no life, and only some vague concept of death.

But he of all people has to understand that, surely, after so long. "You really believe that?"

"I do."

And what can you say to that?

Plenty, actually. You can find ways to destroy him and remind him that nothing of what drives him, nothing that he can take pride in, none of what he acts on is really his, you can use this to break his will and kill him as the only a witch could die, and the only way a witch could die, and then you'd finally be free, and you can go back.

But you don't.

 

* * *

 

But you won't.

Even if you fully believed you can break his spirit when all this couldn't, you won't. And you know he won't take the next opportunity to kill you, either.

Because you know—

Even if you win, you don't know if you can even find the Assembly again in the entire sea of Fragments after all this; you don't know that they will truly welcome you or accept you back even if you do, that this isn't just a way to erase a potential stain on their reputation in a world where reputation and perception is everything. And he, if he wins, he gains power, but the only way from here on for him is the unenviable path of a Voyager.

—And so, you know the truth. The truth that this may be an everlasting torture, an eternal prison, and you, each other's jailers and each other's prisoners both, but—

But here, neither of you are truly alone. You do not have to face the endless void in the Sea of Fragments, which would just as soon shatter you to pieces or swallow you up whole, on your own, nor have to slowly lose your mind in this prison of perfect silence with only yourselves for company. This world and this state is comfortable, familiar. Painfully, mind numbingly so, but this pain is preferable to a much more terrifying, uncertain eternity that awaits you outside.


End file.
